


The Angel at Dawn

by mistynights



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Getting Together, Kinda, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistynights/pseuds/mistynights
Summary: Peggy Carter, (b. 1995)The Angel at Dawn(2019)Oil on canvas***Peggy hasn't touched a brush since she and Steve broke up, but when she sees Angie working at an art shop, Peggy can't help asking her to model for a painting.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	The Angel at Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in January and it has been sitting in my drafts since then. This may be one of my most self-indulgent works yet, and that's saying something. A huge thanks to [wistmanswords](https://wistmanswords.dreamwidth.org/) for betaing this for me!

_ “Is she here?” _

_ “I don’t think she’s coming.” _

_ “Pity. I’ve wanted to meet her for a while. I hear you two have quite the story.” _

**[1]**

It’s not a messy thing, not really. It’s quiet conversations in the dead of night; it’s a bed too big for her alone while Steve sleeps on the couch; it’s whispered  _ I’m sorry _ ’s repeated over and over again; it’s a suitcase and a box sitting on the entrance floor; it’s paperwork and signatures; it’s a ring left abandoned on the kitchen counter.

Peggy doesn’t cry at first. She spends the first few days afterwards moving through the apartment in a daze, mind numb and eyes unfocussed. She barely remembers to leave the bed or feed herself. She refuses to charge her phone in fear of who may be on the other side of the line.

On the seventh day, Howard and the Jarvises come, bearing old cheesy movies and huge tupperwares of food Ana’s prepared for her.

“An intervention,” Howard announces, because he’s a melodramatic idiot.

“We’re just checking up on you,” Jarvis corrects, because he’s the more reasonable of the two.

“Edwin made cookies for you as well,” Ana says, the sweetest smile on her face, and Peggy’s heart aches more than it ever has.

They watch movies all afternoon, eat as much of Ana’s delicious food as they can before feeling like they will explode, and comment on the unusually hot summer they’re having. And then, just as the sun starts to set, while a particularly bad western plays on the tv, Peggy finally breaks down, finally lets it all out.

***

She feels better after her tears dry. Not perfect, not even close, but better; less like she’s trying to walk underwater.

Howard, Ana, and Jarvis sleep at her apartment that evening, keep her company, make sure she won’t drown in her misery. In the morning Jarvis makes them all breakfast and Ana leaves sweet notes on the fridge’s whiteboard.

When they leave some hours later, Howard hugs her close to his chest with the strength of an ocean and gives Peggy her phone, fully charged.

“You call if you need anything, alright?” he says and Peggy can feel herself tear up a little.

“Howard, I’ll be fine,” she replies, but he just hugs her tighter, shakes his head.

“No, listen. Anything at all. Even if it’s breaking that asshole’s windows. Anything.”

That makes Peggy laugh. And maybe that’s just what she needs now: someone to hug her and to put a smile on her face and to tell her that things will get better, even if she doesn’t fully believe it now.

When she’s on her own again, Peggy looks at Ana’s notes on the fridge and smiles through the tears that roll down her face. She knows she has a long way to go, that the hurt she feels now won’t just disappear. But she also knows that there’s hope that one day she will be able to let go and continue. In the meantime, she has friends who will be by her side for as long as she needs them.

***

She stops painting when Steve leaves. She goes down to the studio once, three weeks after the whole thing is over. It’s empty without his things cluttering his side of the room. It feels wrong, tainted.

Howard picks up the phone on the second ring because he might be an utter moron, but he’s a good friend. They spend the rest of the day reorganizing Peggy’s things in the studio until it seems less bare.

She still can’t bear to go inside on her own, can’t stand the sight of her easel and her paints sitting on the shelves.

It feels like a betrayal, an even bigger one than Steve’s departure. So he broke her heart; it’s not the first time that’s happened. Peggy knows how to live without a heart. But she doesn’t think she can survive without her art.

**[2]**

Peggy isn’t sure why she decides to go into the shop. It’s been months since she last felt capable of painting, such a long time that she’s started to accept a life without art as her only possible future. 

And yet.

There’s something about this shop. Maybe it’s the neatly organized stack of coloring pencil sets exhibited on the front, or the vintage sign above the door, or the way the light catches on her reflection on the door’s glass. Whatever it is, though, it’s enough to make her go in against her reservations.

There’s no one inside except for a woman stacking one of the shelves. She’s wearing a beige apron and humming a song under her breath, and the way her profile looks against the light from the windows takes Peggy’s breath away.

***

They finally meet face to face half an hour and a brand new set of oil paints later. The shop’s counter is between them now, a barrier and a shield both. Angie, the name tag on her shirt announces in proud golden letters, and Peggy can’t help but see her in the center on a giant canvas, surrounded by colors and light, ethereal, beautiful.

“Can I paint you?” Peggy asks, only half conscious of her words. 

Angie looks puzzled for a moment before laughing. “What? Right now? I’m on the clock, English.” Peggy feels her whole body warm up in embarrassment. Apologies start to make their way through her mouth before Angie bats them away with a smile so bright it outshines the sun itself. “I’m off at five. Why don’t you come and we can discuss it then?”

It’s the first time since Steve that Peggy’s felt like going back to her studio; the first time she’s felt she has the strength to sit down in front of a canvas without feeling like her life is about to crumble to the ground. It’s stupid. This whole after-Steve thing has been so stupid.  _ She _ has been so stupid. But Peggy had had hopes and dreams, had thought that part of her life would be a constant even if nothing else was. Howard says she can be excused for that and she tries very hard to believe him.

And now, with her new paints in her hand and Angie’s smile inked on her mind, Peggy feels capable of thinking about something other than the past that was and the future that wasn’t. She doesn’t think she’s felt this way in a while.

**[3]**

Angie is lying on the studio’s sofa, has been for the past ten minutes. Peggy sits in front of her, sketchbook in one hand and pencil clutched in the other. She’s not looking at Angie, eyes fixed on the few lines she’s already started laying on the paper.

From the sofa, Angie talks; something about her day. Peggy can’t focus on the words. Her voice sounds distant, muffled somehow.  _ Everything _ sounds distant, like it’s surrounded by a layer of cotton, like it’s coming from the depths of the ocean.

“English!” Angie says. There’s laughter in her voice that makes her look up sharply.

Shit. Right. That’s why Peggy’s not looking at her.

Angie’s naked, hair like a halo around her, one arm stretched under her head, the other one sitting over her leg and holding a  _ very  _ see-through veil that does nothing to cover her. From the window, the sun wraps her in an ethereal blanket that makes the freckles that dot her whole body shine like stars in the night.

It’s not like Peggy’s forgotten that she has a very beautiful, very naked Angie lying in her studio, posing for her with a smile on her face. In fact, Peggy’s spent the last ten minutes since Angie let her clothes fall to the floor trying to focus on anything other than her friend’s state of undress. But, for a moment there, Angie’s presence felt too much like a dream to be a concern.

***

It’s been about a month since Angie started modeling for her. They meet once a week for hours and hours, talking while Peggy sketches until she can barely hold her pencil anymore. She hasn’t actually started working on the canvas she bought to paint Angie. She tells herself it’s because she still needs more practice, but, in reality, by now Peggy could probably draw her features without looking.

“You’re quite the catch, you know?” Angie says, her words too sincere, and the tip of Peggy’s pencil shatters when it falls to the floor. Angie’s eyes harden in a way she’s never seen before.

“Angie,” Peggy begins, but Angie just shakes her head with a frown.

“I guess I’ve been reading this whole thing wrong. I’m sorry.” Her voice is like ice, cold and unforgiving, but there’s a tinge of something underneath. Something that Peggy thinks sounds too much like fear.

They’ve been meeting outside their drawing sessions as well, not really on purpose but not really by accident either. They talk in the shop before going up to the studio, or meet at a nearby café and talk for hours, or walk together to Peggy’s place after a hard day at work and share a bottle of wine and laugh and laugh until the sun comes up again.

It’s too erratic to be a routine, but it’s common enough that Peggy’s gotten used to it. Common enough that she’s noticed how close they’ve become in such a short time, how much they care about one another. How much _Peggy_ cares. Angie’s noticed too, it seems.

And now Angie believes she’s messed up their friendship by talking about it. And that’s something Peggy can’t allow.

“No,” she says, louder than she intended. Angie looks taken aback, though not in a bad way, not completely. “You’ve gotten it right. I just can’t…”

“I see,” Angie says, in the tone of someone who doesn’t see at all.

“No,” Peggy repeats, softer this time. “I’m damaged. I can’t right now. It wouldn’t be fair to make you deal with all of this. All of me. But I want, I  _ really _ do. I just need to work on everything first.”

And then she’s talking, really talking, for the first time in months, about Steve, about him leaving, about the grief, about the pieces missing inside of her. Angie just listens, face softening with every passing second.

“Oh, English,” she says once Peggy’s done. She’s crouched next to her chair—when did that happen?—a soft blanket covering her, a hand in Peggy’s, a smile on her face. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

Peggy nods. It’s a shaky movement, but she isn’t crying and that’s a win. Angie’s smile widens just a bit. They’re silent and still for a long while before Peggy clears her throat and speaks.

“I think I can start painting you next week, if that works for you.”

Angie nods and something grows in the silence that follows.

***

Peggy’s paintbrush slides across the canvas with too much ease. It shouldn’t be so simple. After months and months of barely looking at a pencil, it feels wrong to be able to just  _ paint _ , like it’s nothing, like she never really stopped.

“You’re gonna wrinkle frowning like that, English,” Angie says from the sofa. Peggy huffs, dips the brush in gold.

“I focus better when I do,” she replies. Angie laughs, free and perfect, and Peggy can’t resist a smile as she draws lines of light around the body in the canvas.

They settle back into silence, surrounded only by the melodies coming from Peggy’s old radio. From time to time Angie sings little bits of the songs with a soft voice that makes Peggy’s eyes water ever so slightly.

From the canvas, Angie’s drawn face smiles softly at her, while the constellations of freckles on her body slowly float and join the stars in the background.

**[4]**

They sit in front of each other in their usual table at the café, Angie focused on the sweet monstrosity she’s bought. Peggy is looking at her, trying to commit to memory every detail of her face. Sitting this close together, with the lights coming from the window, Peggy can make out the pattern of freckles that dust Angie’s cheeks, the bridge of her nose, down her neck and further down still. It’s a mesmerizing sight, an invitation to count and to follow the invisible trails between them, and a taunt, a quiet whisper that says  _ you can look at us all you like, but you’ll never be allowed to know us the way you want to _ . They’ve been friends for half a year, give or take, and Peggy is familiar now with the slight clenching of her heart when she looks at Angie, familiar with that unmistakable feeling of want.

She could make a move, she knows that. Angie, unlike her, always wears her heart on her sleeve. Peggy knows that whatever she feels is at least somewhat mutual, and Angie has talked about her ex-girlfriends enough that Peggy doesn’t fear a misunderstanding on that department. And then there’s always that conversation they had at the studio. She knows Angie’s feelings on the matter. She could make a move, but she  _ can’t _ . Not yet. There’s still a piece missing inside her, a mess where her heart should be.

It’s just not fair, she thinks, tea on her lips and Angie, Angie,  _ Angie,  _ on her mind. It’s not fair to crave someone’s love when she’s still trying to glue back together the shattered pieces of her heart.

***

She’s sitting on a park bench with Angie when she gets the call. It’s a representative from an art gallery in town. He’s seen the painting she made for Howard, the one with the flamingos flying between clouds of fire. His boss, the owner of the gallery, has seen it too and would like for her to have an opening in his gallery.

“We don’t normally do this,” the man explains. “Reach out to the artists, I mean. But Mr. Stark said you probably weren’t looking to make an opening at the moment so we’d have better luck asking than waiting for you.”

Howard’s right, of course, not that she’ll ever let him know. Peggy only got back into painting some months ago. She’s spent that time trying to win back her confidence in her art. She’s done a great deal of process, that’s true, but she doubts she would have thought about exhibiting had the man not called her.

“I hadn’t considered it, no,” she tells the man. He sighs, defeated yet unsurprised, and Peggy thinks  _ fuck it _ , because this is a huge opportunity, because it’s something that she has never had the chance to experience, because she’s trying to get better and maybe this will help. She talks again before the man can really get any words out. “I’m interested in discussing this further, though. Can I call you back later?”

The man agrees, eager, and they exchange information. Once she hangs up Angie gives her a look, silently asks for an explanation without demanding her.

“I got an offer to have an opening at a gallery,” Peggy explains after a moment. Angie’s eyes light up in a way she doesn’t think she’s seen often enough.

“That’s wonderful, English.” Her voice is coated in the same excitement that shines in her eyes and Peggy has to force herself to look away. “What did you say? When is it happening?”

“We’re discussing the details later tonight. I’ll tell you when I know for sure everything.” Angie nods eagerly. Silence surrounds them, the kind of silence that settles like a comforting hand around your shoulders. And then Angie laughs, beautiful and sweet, like a stream in the spring.

“You’ll have to show me the painting then,” she says. Peggy tries to avoid the fear that threatens to climb up her throat at that statement. Until now, she’s refused to let Angie see the painting, claiming that it’s not done, that it still needs more work before it’s ready. In reality, she’s scared her feelings are too obviously on display on the canvas.

“You’re coming?” She asks for a lack of a better way to put her feelings into words.

“Of course I am, English. Honestly, who do you take me for?” Angie says, and it sounds so final that Peggy can’t find the words to reply.

**[5]**

They are lying on Angie’s bed, facing each other, empty glasses of wine and a half-finished box of chocolates resting on the bedside table. Angie is giddy, her eyes half lidded and a pleased smile on her face. Peggy’s not drunk, but she’s close. Close enough to keep her gaze glued to Angie’s face, close enough to not immediately look away when her eyes meet Angie’s.

“I think I love you,” Peggy blurts before she can stop herself and regrets it immediately when Angie’s smile falls. They’ve been friends for so long, they’ve been through so much, and this is how everything ends, apparently.

“Oh, Peggy,” Angie says, soft, almost afraid. The name is proof of the seriousness of the moment. Peggy can barely remember the last time she called her by her name instead of ‘English’. “I think this is something we ought to talk about when we are both sober, don’t you?”

Peggy looks at her as if her life depended on it. In a way, it feels like it does. The light coming from the window makes Angie’s face look like a marble sculpture, like some unattainable goddess who’s been kind enough to let herself be seen. And now Peggy’s ruined it all.

Angie must see something in Peggy’s face because she sighs, leans towards her, puts a gentle hand on her cheek. For a second, a terrible second, Peggy allows herself to imagine Angie’s lips on her, imagine their mouths together finally,  _ finally,  _ after all these months.

But Angie’s lips land on her other cheek, soft enough that Peggy wonders if she’s imagined it. When she pulls away, Angie looks sad, broken almost. And it shatters Peggy’s heart; this expression, this hurt, is the last thing she wants to see on her face. Knowing she’s the cause of this look is enough to twist her insides with guilt, with regret.

“Angie, I’m—” Angie shakes her head, puts her thumb to Peggy’s lips to quiet the apology that threatens to leave her mouth.

“Sleep, Peggy, we’ll talk in the morning.”

***

Peggy is gone by morning.

She tells herself, throughout the next few days, that she isn’t avoiding Angie. She’s merely done with most of the painting; only the finishing details remain. She no longer needs a model, there’s no reason to bother Angie any longer.

Angie texts her a week after the incident. Peggy’s been ignoring her calls, telling herself she’s got too much work to answer the phone. There are only a few more weeks before the opening and she has paintings to finish, details to add, odds and ends to organize to ensure everything goes perfectly.

She can’t ignore the text, though; she can’t help the ache in her chest at Angie’s words.

_ I understand, you need space, but know it doesn’t have to end here. _

**[6]**

It’s a beautiful painting, soft colors and softer lines, the hours and the pain needed to create it evident in every detail. It’s beautiful, even Peggy can admit that, and so unlike anything she’s ever done it surprises her; a new phase in the life of the artist, in the words of some critic that has come to the opening.

People seem drawn to the painting, crowding around it, eyes fixed, mesmerized. Peggy watches them from afar, leaning against the opposite wall next to the canapés. She’s been asked about the painting a couple of times so far, asked to name a price, to part with it. And every time, Peggy shakes her head, tries to give a polite smile.

“It’s already been spoken for,” she says every time. That’s the best way she can explain that she can’t bear the thought of someone else having it, of someone else having  _ her. _

“Is she here?” Jarvis asks from the canapés table. He has a glass of champagne on one hand and an uncharacteristically soft smile on his lips.

“Is who here?” Peggy replies, looking at him with a confused frown. Jarvis laughs and uses the glass to point towards the painting on the opposite wall, at the group of people oohing around it. Peggy’s frown deepens. “I don’t think she’s coming.”

“Pity,” Jarvis says. “I’ve wanted to meet her for a while. I hear you two have quite the story.”

***

A collective murmur travels through the gallery, the crowd in front of the painting parts to let a woman pass. Peggy watches it unfold out of the corner of her eye, but she keeps her mind fixed on Jarvis and the story he’s telling her about Howard and baking.

“Oh, Lord,” he says suddenly, interrupting himself. “Pardon my saying so, but isn’t that her?”

He’s pointing towards the painting. The crowd that had been there before has left, found other paintings to invest their time in. And there, like a part of the exposition herself, is Angie, hair around her like a waterfall of curls, dressed in a dark blue dress with a low enough back that Peggy can see the constellations on her skin. Jarvis snorts at the surprised look on her face, points at Angie with her now empty champagne glass.

“You should go.” He doesn’t have to repeat himself.

There’s static in the air when Peggy reaches her side, a sound like an old tv without signal that fills her ears, her head. She doesn’t get to speak before Angie turns around. She’s been staring at the painting and her eyes shine with unshed tears. Peggy’s heart clenches but she doesn’t have time to react before Angie’s arms are around her neck.

“Is this what you see?” She asks, voice barely above a whisper. Peggy nods, shakily, wraps her arms around Angie’s waist, holds her close. Angie takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I need to talk to you.”

“I know a place,” Peggy replies, joins their hands and pulls Angie towards the staircase that leads to the roof. People around the gallery give them long looks, but no one makes a move to stop them. There seems to be a silent understanding in the room, as if by looking at the painting everyone present just  _ knows _ their story, their lives, their hearts.

**[7]**

Outside, on the roof, looking out at the night sky, Angie shivers against the cold air. Peggy watches her from the corner of her eyes, follows her every move.

When Angie shivers again, Peggy takes her suit jacket off and wraps it around her shoulders. Angie smiles, soft, almost hesitant. They stand there in silence for a long time afterwards. All the eagerness to pour their hearts out from some minutes ago seems frozen now, floating loose around them.

“It’s lovely,” Angie finally says and her voice sounds so small it breaks Peggy’s heart. “The painting.”

“Angie.” Peggy sighs. “I’m sorry, about everything.”

“I understand.”

“You do?” Angie laughs at that, a soft sound that seems almost a bit too bitter. Or it would, if Peggy didn’t know the story.

“No,” Angie replies softly, a little smile playing on her lips. “But I can imagine, I think.”

There’s a silence then, a breath of air after too long underwater.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Peggy says. Angie shakes her head a couple of times, makes her curls bounce against her shoulders.

“Me neither,” Angie replies. A moment passes before she continues. “I was so angry at first, and then sad. I felt like I’d done something wrong even though… Well, you know.”

***

Much later, long after the opening is over, they sit across from each other in Angie’s small kitchen table, two cups of coffee cooling between them.

“What made you change your mind? About the opening?” Peggy asks after a minute. Angie shrugs, plays with the hem of Peggy’s jacket still around her shoulders.

Back at the rooftop above the opening, words had slipped between them with ease. Now, silence hangs like a veil around the room, broken only by the monotonous ticks of an old clock.

“I thought I’d come and talk to you,” Angie replies finally. Her voice sounds small, almost unsure. “It felt wrong not to fix things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve said.” Peggy shakes her head, closes her eyes for a second before replying.

“I mean it. I was scared, still am, if I’m being honest. I don’t think I can take losing you.”

“Oh, English.” Angie’s hand slides towards her on top of the table, closer and closer until their fingers brush, until they intertwine. “I’m sorry you had a shitty time with your ex, but disappearing after saying you love me isn’t the way to keep me around.”

Angie laughs then, and the sound is closer to her usual self, free and real. And Peggy can’t help but feel relieved, even if everything isn’t fixed yet, not completely. There’s a light shining from afar, a promise that things will get easier if they put just a little bit more effort. Peggy laughs too, with her, until her stomach ache, until she isn’t sure if her eyes sting with happy or sad tears.

“Would it be terribly presumptuous of me to ask you to dinner tomorrow?” Peggy asks once they’ve both calmed down some. Angie stares at her for a second, eyes wide and smile wider, before shaking her head in amusement.

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](https://misty--nights.tumblr.com/)


End file.
